


ah, but underneath

by ladyvivien



Category: Casino Royale (2006), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Breaking and Entering, F/M, James is working out some of his issues, Lingerie, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-02
Updated: 2012-11-02
Packaged: 2017-11-17 14:31:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/552593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyvivien/pseuds/ladyvivien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was smart, tart, dry as a martini.<br/>Ah, but underneath...</p>
            </blockquote>





	ah, but underneath

**Author's Note:**

> Lyric & summary taken from ["Ah, But Underneath"](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gK-GGbn7wh4), from Stephen Sondheim's _Follies_.

The flat is quiet when he breaks in - her husband is away at a conference (James has read his books and quite enjoyed them) and M isn’t due back for at least an hour. He’s left with the choice of watching the files download or seeing what secrets are hidden in her cupboards and drawers.

So of course, he starts in the bedroom. 

It surprises him to find that M isn’t as scrupulously tidy at home as she is at the office. There’s an empty wine glass next to the bed, balanced on top of a novel which isn’t trashy, exactly, but it isn’t high literature either. Shoes are scattered on the floor next to the wardrobe, which isn’t fully closed. Inside are suits and scarves, nothing brighter than navy, nestled next to her husband’s tweed. He’s not sure who the leather jacket belongs to, but he allows himself the image of M wearing nothing but that and her pearls and sensible court shoes anyway. 

Which brings him to the drawers. They’re not properly closed, and there’s a bra strap hanging out that’s just begging to be examined. On closer inspection, it’s cream lace and silk, and M has bigger tits than he’s ever noticed. He can’t stop his hands from running through the collection of silk and lace, his breathing faster and his heart pounding harder in a way that has nothing to do with the fear of discovery. Wondering what M would do if she walked in on him with his hands in her knicker drawer leads to thoughts about his hand in her knickers and that’s when his fingers brush cool metal.

It’s small and discreet. _Like its owner_ he thinks with a grin. It only takes a few seconds to find the pressure point that makes it buzz. He wonders if Q designed it. He wonders if she thinks about him when she presses it to her clit, if she imagines taking the place of all the forgettable pretty girls he’s screwed. He shoves it back in the drawer, before desires that are only half-buried at the best of times can surface any further. 

Still, he can’t quite resist the urge to linger there and find out what other secrets she’s hiding. The next thing he pulls out make his breath catch in his throat. So far, he’s seen classy, expensive lingerie - sexy, but discreet. 

Not like this.

This is a scrap of grey lace held together with a string of pearls. He swears softly, grinding his erection against the mahogany of the drawers. This isn’t the kind of lingerie a woman wears beneath her business suits for that _frisson_ of naughtiness. This something you wear to fuck someone. 

The clock is ticking, and he’s heading towards the bedroom door before he realises that he’s still holding the thong. The lift whirrs and he shoves it in his jacket pocket without thinking. 

By the time she steps out of the lift, he’s sprawled out on a chair shuffling cards. He looks at the tailored suit and wonders what she’s wearing beneath it. 

Afterwards, he collapses on his unmade bed in his empty flat and tries not to draw comparisons between his life and hers. And although he knows he shouldn’t, he pulls out the crumpled fabric.

He’s brought a little piece of her life away from the office with him. Maybe that’s what turns him on, the thought that she exists outside Six, that when she leaves the building it’s not for a mission, it’s for home. 

He pushes the envy to the back of his mind, reminds himself that she threatened to kick him out of the service, and focuses on the scrap of lace and the string of pearls. He runs his finger over them, wondering how they feel against her skin, pulled taut into the cleft of her arse. He wonders if they were her idea or his. He wonders what else he’d have found if he’d stayed - when she’s not sending men out to be tortured or killed, does she like to be tied up? Would he have found silk scarves, leather cuffs, steel handcuffs? He’s so lost in the image of M tied to her bed, gagged lightly enough that she can still moan, that it takes him a minute to realise he’s stroking his cock with the same hand that’s holding her knickers. 

He unbuckles his belt with a shaking hand, kicks his trousers and boxers onto the floor, and wraps M’s thong around his cock.

“Fuck,” he hisses, as he starts to wank with hard, angry tugs. “Fuck you, M.” He doesn’t know if he hates her for having a life, or because he’s never seen this side of her before - playful, teasing, sexy. 

He wonders what she’d have done if he’d refused to leave. If instead of slinking out with his tail between his legs, he’d pushed her up against the wall and kissed her hard. Let his hands roam over her body, unbuttoning her blouse and seeing what’s underneath. If she’d have fought him off or melted into it, let him have her right there, pinned against one of her stupid expensive paintings (and who would have guessed M would be into abstract art? Bloody women and their hidden depths. So much easier when all you know is their name and allegiance, or lack of one). 

He fists his cock as he imagines pounding into her. Murmuring her name, her real name, just to prove he can. Tormenting her, making her beg to be allowed to come. Letting her know who’s in charge. 

He’s fucked up but he knows it, and shouldn’t that count for something? 

The setting blurs, and she’s bent over her desk as he takes her from behind, comms channel open so that the CIA or KGB or who cares, her fucking secretary, just _someone_ can hear the head of the Secret Intelligence Service getting fucked by one of her agents. 

He comes with a shout, loud and messy when there’s no one around to hear, spunking stickily into the fabric. He lets them fall to the bed as his eyes close, waiting for his heart to stop racing. 

He strips the bed, studiously avoiding the stolen goods that he can’t exactly return now even if he could think of a way that would be subtle and not get him kicked in the balls by his boss, and steps into a scalding shower. The hot water stings his skin and rinses him clean, and it’s not just the sweat and sex he’s washing off, it’s the sight of M’s domestic bliss and wanting it so fiercely, just for that one moment. 

He towels himself dry and dresses, doing up his tie as he grabs his keys and taps in the ridiculously complicated security code that stops anyone from breaking in. Because it worked so well for M. 

He doesn’t bother to make the bed. He won’t be sleeping in it, anyway.


End file.
